"blunted" poems
A sea of nettles and nails that scream their injustice at you
People who seem like they've shaken off their prickly outsides and their hatred
Turning to congratulate them
Embrace them
Before you find the truth beneath their pillowy covering
Nails can be blunted and nettles can be softened but they remain below your surface,
Waiting for the right moment to be sharpened and grow back their stings
I see your injustice and I raise you my peace
It hurts to tear out your nails and to burn off those nettles
But oh god does it hurt more to walk your tender, soft body through that forest of pain
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore
reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)
bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
*blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!*
duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields
meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)
baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
O stony grey soil of Monaghan
The laugh from my love you thieved;
You took the gay child of my passion
And gave me your clod-conceived.
You clogged the feet of my boyhood
And I believed that my stumble
Had the poise and stride of Apollo
And his voice my thick tongued mumble.
You told me the plough was immortal!
O green-life conquering plough!
The mandril stained, your coulter blunted
In the smooth lea-field of my brow.
You sang on steaming dunghills
A song of cowards' brood,
You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,
You fed me on swinish food
You flung a ditch on my vision
Of beauty, love and truth.
O stony grey soil of Monaghan
You burgled my bank of youth!
Lost the long hours of pleasure
All the women that love young men.
O can I stilll stroke the monster's back
Or write with unpoisoned pen.
His name in these lonely verses
Or mention the dark fields where
The first gay flight of my lyric
Got caught in a peasant's prayer.
Mullahinsa, Drummeril, Black Shanco-
Wherever I turn I see
In the stony grey soil of Monaghan
Dead loves that were born for me.
8.5k
*
I am talking of fearlessness
"Fearlessness..."
The same fearlessness
Shown by Christ on the cross
The same fearlessness
Shown by Gandhi
For his non-violence
The same fearlessness
When Mansoor said "I am YOU"
Was lynched & cut piece by piece
The same fearlessness
Of Meera who sang for Krishna on the streets
When she was humiliated, ****** made fun off
The same fearlessness
When Radha danced for Krishna
Even after Krishna left Vrindawan for Dwarka
The same fearlessness
With which Hussaiyn Ali
Martryed his life at Karbala
While trusting someone
The same fearlessness
Of Sita when she withstood
The tests of Rama's accusations
The same fearlessness
When Bahi Taru Singh
suffered governor's brutal torture
The same fearlessness
When Mirziyaan gave his bow & arrow
To Sahibaan knowing that
The tip of his arrow may be blunted
Leading to his death
The same fearlessness
When Romeo drank the poison
And Zuliet stabbed herself with a dagger
The same fearlessness
That made Layla fall sick & died on hearing that
Her Majnun is roaming mad in wilderness;
Later on hearing about Layla's death
Majnun died near Layla's grave
The same fearlessness
When Rabia wanted to
Cease the fire of hell and
Set alight hopes of paradise
The same fearlessness
Of Rumi who guards
The divine light of LOVE
The same fearlessness
When one is compelled by
soul energy to LOVE BELOVEDz
That is the fearlessness
I am talking about
"The fearlessness of LOVE"
*
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
I swing my sword
At the monster inside me.
But the blade has been blunted,
It's dull and cannot ****
What is a warrior without her sword?
Joan of Arc without her horse?
Stripped of my valor,
In the middle of war.
I do not have the means to fight anymore.
Left bare to the sun.
Where arrows can pierce
And daggers can jab.
Trying to create an image,
Which seemed so vivid before.
All my paint is dull
And all my canvas broken.
What is an artist without his brush?
Van Gogh without his hands?
The pain he must feel
When losing his only muse.
He lives through art,
So dies if he cannot paint.
I live through words,
I die if I cannot write.
Now god you've taken my legs.
How do I live,
When I cannot stand.
I fear I've lost my only light.
I fear I'm out of muse.
With nothing more to say.
Like a warrior without her sword.
Van Gogh without his hands.
My words are my legs,
And I cannot stand.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
We were warm in that sunlight
Love ran thick in succulent leaves
Unfolding when the day would fade
Moving in the sunlight as the shadows chased
Dusty gray green happiness
Even keeled gentle curves of feeling
Rosy blush edging our forevers
Blunted points of conversations
We can last long on the waters we keep
Though we separate as time goes by
Conjoined in a cluster at the base of our relationship
Our love is like the succulents
Long lasting,
Long lived
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Machine ground days
Somehow survived by clinging to precarious plans
Die for those.
For proles are stuck in a televised gleam
but I’m barred from distractions
I’m a man of action
Spring healing:
I found a new hope to get through the day
It has a name and it’s you
Workday: animistic curses
against people and their systems and products
except animals would escape forever
as soon as they open the cage
but we stay
The beastly gnashings of overworked merchandisers
for invisible self pocket stuffers
The competition's getting to us, comrades
I feel swindled out of my labor
I was pregnant
but they sold my child before
I woke up
Addressing the solipsism of my rehab circle:
I’m Kagey, and my life is hazy
but, blunted or no, let’s get this clear:
don’t trust your senses
and that goes for all my human peers
Body is a cage full of defenses
Still, I’m suspicious of reality
whether it’s façade society
or the wooden chair in front of me
Still, I enjoy the virtual scenery
I ain’t talking about on the T.V. or phone screen
I mean the willows, buildings, and faces
But all these mushy green acres are fakers
blobs without our eyesight
Still tho,
me and the universe are tight.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
Hell shimmies when I am blunted ;
When I take a knock to the senses
When I am skinless,
singing stings
and misdirected by pain
If I had trained better
I'd be deep sea
Sussing distant messages
Operating with slight tremors, vocals and movement
and only when correct...
I'd be home
I'd be instrument
Not an act
Not a pet to society
No mood fool ;
flaked,
flooded
and littered
Rapped at by experiences
Attack reacting
An embarrassment
Watching my own pattern spooling
the same sums
and spoiling with repetition
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt
Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.
From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive. But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.
His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.
Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words, confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
I lack inspiration, when sound does not riddle the causeways of my mind
when echos bounce less around my cranium and more from my lips i find..
solace,
solace in the fact that no longer am i directed from indirect communications but more from the sound i make,
i learnt to grasp the steering wheel in both hands and turn sharp in the corners,
i learnt that without sound echoing through my ears my eyes work with pinpoint accuracy..
i never noticed the way the grass grows over old cobbles..
i never noticed the way my heart beats
the way it skips, and bleats,
i learnt not to be a sheep, but a profit,
a guider to the blind,
don't tell them I'm blind as-well
because it doesn't matter if i can see or i cant
it does not matter if what i say is truth or lies
but if the fiction of my antiquity compels you to lift your heart up
brings joy from the desolation of your mind but to the fore front of the battle field that is your life i have achieved something incredible, I've achieved peace
peace through happiness, joy through inspiration so read on!
read on young soldier,
your broken mind and battle ready battle wounds are bound too tightly by your compassion to conform
take of your bandages and read on! read forwards and on wards and strive to learn, why
why young soldier i know you've never been trained
and i know your mind is ill with discontent and i know your shoes are whittled to your socks and i know
i know how hard it is to stand with two broken legs and only the solace of that barren bare cranium to lean on
but in my antiquity young soldier
i have learnt that we are all warriors
fighters along a broken line standing our ground against greater odds then you could ever conceive of battling...
i know young solider that many will fall and die
and many will perish to broken minds and hearts and souls,
but the ones who make it through this perishable existence, the ones who fight beyond any compassion beyond any reason,
god I've met boys who will tear out each others throats with their teeth I've learnt that men are shells of creatures that have never been fully understood,
my existence has been about
nothing but fighting
and now i have reached an age where i can lay down the rifle of my words, i can leave my blunted knives to rust in a back closet i realized young soldier
the agony of your existence may seem like the end, but its just the start.
and when your reach a point in your life where you can rest,
savor it,
do not let someone tell you how to exist without your consent , do not fight a battle you do not want to fight,
stand your ground young soldier
re-reinforcements are on the way
L.G
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
It's the skin on skin basics:
You may touch, but please don't look.
I hand him a pinecone,
pale petals,
and some Tulgeywood bark
saying "Feel it out in the dark,"
saying
"Can you tell me what that is?
Can you dab your flesh on those pine needles,
***** your tips in the dark?
Feel it out in the light now.
Can you taste it:
Can you lap it, lick it?
Bite it, mosquito, bite
'til your lips are swollen
and
'til your teeth are blunted
and
'til the thought of one more cigarette
is enough to
make you sick,
make you smile,
make you laugh for a short while or an hour or two...
Spit, ***** spit; you're a jumpy little mare.
If you don't know what a pinecone feels like
I'll break all 13 hands of you.
Can you press petals in your fingers
and call it the skin on the small of my back?
Call the dew in small beads the perspirin' of my lust?
Can you do that for me?
Imagine, for a second?"
I imagine for a second—
I imagine for a second or two.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
My worst enemy and tireless companion
finally came to my door last night.
As I slept away the time of day
And killed my poor friend Time
He traveled closer to my home.
As I slowly cowered in the face of fear
And realized my mistake too late
As I chose to make a silly choice
He quietly opened the door.
Shame came in but didn't stop
And with every tear that welled up inside
He crawled in hot into my cheeks.
As the salty drops burned away my skin
He then moved on down to my throat
And choked me up till air was gone.
I gagged and shook, begging him to go
Openly admitting my sin
But Shame knew he could do more
And as I watched my world crumble
He eagerly attacked my heart.
As he dripped down to the hearth
He triumphed with his final mutation.
The pain of Shame is nothing
Next to that of his brother Humiliation.
There, in the privacy of my soul
He slaughtered my Pride with a blunted blade
As Sloth cowered in the corner.
When the room was red he finally paused
With a smile on his face at the lesson he left.
As he exited Responsibility came in instead
And from the door watched with sad eyes
Waiting for me to rise and finally apologise.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
That day we came
and having come
lapped at by perfumed light
at once separated.
We bathed in the pool
the water like crystal
in the sunset
our limbs like glass.
On the bank
in the hot conjoined air
we made love again
our sweat
like silver in the moonlight.
the water's suppurating flow
drew our limbs
like flotsam in the reeds
grappling glistering lilies
as we floated in slow, ********
currents.
along the bank, the Camphor
shades the forest flowers
through the long-leaved grass
the python slinks
We leave for home
darkened by the sun..........
tongues digging into melons,
pomegranates laid out
neatly for dessert
******* out the Rambutan-
once the hairy skin is peeled-
fiery, red
the soft core sweeter than coitus-
and stays longer in our thoughts.
is this where the dreams are,
or where the dreaming begins,
between the first caress
and the final gasp of satisfaction?
Where the threshing limbs
devour the sun-shredded wheat
and the panting ribbons of air
swallow the final sigh-
the sleek river flowing
seaward, ocean marshalling
the land,
coral languishing in green pools
of broken light.
Here, within this infused beauty,
********** has power
beyond the weather-bound senses
of our northern homes,
encased in dull precipitation
sunshine a blunted knife
beyond the pot-shaped mountains
high above the trees
like a tear emerging from the sky
drops the waterfall
its descent
languid, its fall sharp and effortless;
tinged with azure, carefully sprinkled flakes
it spreads out like a clear, chiming puddle.
There we spread ourselves
naked in the sunlight
the sea's rumbling noise
distant and fumbling-
spreading its curling claws
into the slyly forming sunset
in reiterated rhythms
like beating hearts
like lungs-
the carefully manufactured beats
blending.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
Paper people crackling and folding
Under life's pressure
Blank pages, empty paper void of purpose
Paper flowers, swans, trees and cranes
Craning to find a crease that fits them
Brittle dry leaves waiting to be made into a purpose
Feint margins replace the wrinkles of a face
Origami organisms awaiting nimble fingers
To form features, emotions, life, purpose
Like a Samurai sword, the paper has been folded many times
Yet now blunted, pulped, set alight by a match, reduced to ash.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
mom betrays us.
headlights into the night
& up the breakneck boulevard bluff overlooking town and terminus.
she brings his heart in a ziploc bag,
an offering
to that old burnt-out oak.
[husband\father\corpse]
front porch blood trails forever. she
claims self-defense and the camera-eyes caramelize her
fame & fortune & stepdaddies & book deals & ziploc pb&js & dead dog omens.
when did the heartache begin?
heir\son\brother\body
racing car ****** and fluxed up the boulevard in a ritual reach for daddy and the oak.
the girls are waiting. one two three, seeds.
brakes sabotaged. he
bursts into death, a molten ball of mazda.
father and son laugh there on the brim of here and hereafter.
apparitions uncoiled.
[home movies]
where mercury avenue ends
the woods begin.
& those woods are evil, an eldritch place, she laughs.
even the indians wouldn’t bury their dead there.
america.
caught between the whir of spokes and windshields reflecting
sky and skin, the blue hue
of television flickering on the hands of a family.
grandsons conjure grandmaster demons
on the ply of their treefort high.
the heart of grandma in a ziploc bag.
jupiter and saturn are in conjunction,
twelve past midnight on a tuesday in september.
a school night.
[the babysitter brings over an unlabeled video tape, says its scary]
the children watch.
slumber party screams and pb&js.
ghouls blunted by pungent neighborhood inertia.
son, a ghost returned in rhythm and electronics,
hungry for pizza and pure vengeance.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were opening one's lips so gorgeous and so creamy
greasing me stamen on the unfucked bonk
while the bangers let it rip in the alley
Those were the diseased minds and that was Newfangled York
we were squirting for the wads and the meatballs
and that was gobbled snog for the creamers inside Gloria
centrifugally stiff is thus those of White House Nazis
Ah but you copulated telescopic didn't you basket case
you just acidified your jockstrap on the shoulders of the scrum
you copulated telescopic I never once heard you use sign language
I input you, I don't intake you
I input you, I don't intake you
and all of that balling hard on
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were gorilla—like your ****** *********** was absolute epic
you leaked me again you frocked slap—up old salt
but for me you would **** an unzipping
And shaving your tongue because the creatures lust after us
who are barked at by the Daleks of *** appeal
you Rohypnolled yourself you emitted jet so what?
we are radioactive salvo we shoot full of holes the stride piano
*** one fine morning you copulated telescopic didn't you cocker
you just blunted your extremity on the cattle
you copulated telescopic I never once smelled you emit
I intake you, I don't input you
I intake you, I don't input you
and all of that balling hard on
I don't mean to insinuate that I slobbered over you peanuts
I can't withhold *********** of each crouched ****
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
that's oodles I don't even kick—start you that thick and fast
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
Don't tell me to smile
Exhortations to "cheer up" will be ignored
You don't know how far you're stretching me, do you?
Your head still in the clouds of safety where imbeciles call out to each other
Listen. Listen, do
We're exploring the heaviest things in the world
Too heavy for Sysyphyus to haul
I'm that kid you can kind of see through
The one on the left corner
With the cool bootleg Pink Floyd t shirt wrapping his thin torso
He's got a box of Playboys beneath his nightstand and he's barely 14 years old
He reads and incorporates that garbage into his pre-adolescence behavior
With dreams of visiting Plato's
Retreat
Picking up some bunnies using some of the better Party Jokes
His expertise at 'lingus and 'latio are as well perfected as can be without having actually performed them
But he could sure bust out the ******* Philosophy and would have held his own with the old geezer who wrote it
But he was only 14 and nobody seemed impressed with the amount of ******* culture he'd consumed
They weren't letting him in the cluuuub
Your ****** right he didn't feel like smiling
But he wasn't bored
And he didn't feel too serious
He'd let it slide this time
*to be continued
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC
*It's been going on three years now,
It gets worse and I talk about it less.
Three years of swimming upstream
In a river of cognitive stress.
I don't recall what it's like
To feel rested after a restful night.
I don't remember not feeling high
Simply because all of the lights are too bright.
Friends presume that all is well
But it hinders me every day.
It is a dim room with stagnant air.
Grey clouds that never change.
I can't keep up anymore,
It's far too much of a strain,
Ever since the incident long ago
That bludgeoned and blunted my brain.
I trudge through every day
Shoes weighted with lead.
It feels like a dream
Because it's all in my head.*
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be.
For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
He’s no God like Sachin, neither is ‘Wall’ his sobriquet
He doesn’t whack them a mile like Sehwag or Ganguly.
He just comes in with a resolve and soaks in the pressure
Where others would succumb to panic, he thrives beautifully.
When the team is sinking, his steely nerves bring them to shore
He kisses the tension in the air away with his assuring presence.
When the gods turn away, VVS emerges – serene and tough
And clears up the mess with divine grace and elegance!
When his bat swivels below his magical wrists, its pure bliss!
The cherry caresses the grass and dances towards the fence.
Like a stroke of an artist’s brush that just painted a perfect arc.
And with his own people, the enemy’s admiration you can sense.
He doesn’t evoke fear, excitement, anxiety or frustration
He doesn’t pump his fists in the air, doesn’t snarl or stare.
You either see the calmness or a bright smile on his face.
He’s a stern fighter with no arrogance – a quality so rare!
They say he’s ‘Very, Very Special’, which he indeed is.
In the country of demigods he’s a man that makes god proud.
He’s not worshipped by sponsors, doesn’t earn big bucks,
But he owns a bigger treasure – Respect from all in the crowd.
The Aussies ***** feared the world over, swear by his name,
For, he crushes their strong might with his class and sublimity.
Their killer-instinct turns into shivers when they see him walk out
Their razor-sharp words get blunted by his poise and humility.
VVS epitomizes romance. No wonder he loves the Eden Gardens!
Where the ‘Lord’s’ of Indian Cricket reside, is his fortress.
When he bats, you just surrender your senses to his splendour,
The twirl of his hypnotic wrists can bust your biggest stress.
The world seems a better place when you watch VVS on song.
Even time stops to admire his delicate flick that goes fine.
And as you lose yourself in his determined yet soft eyes,
You find yourself sitting in heaven, enjoying a glass of wine!
Selflessness is his middle name; there is no 'I' in the word 'Team,'
The hardest job that no one wants, he will do for his team.
I’m blessed to have experienced the beauty of VVS…
The skill of his splendid batting and the purity of his beam!!!
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC
Men clad cleanly, polished boots and bowler hats,
Women wearing short skirts or long dress,
Boys no longer boys deny their old,
With rock and rap, skate shoes; how bold!
Indifferently they carry on,
I am you, and you are him,
She is fat and she is slim,
Registered in heads dead depth,
As we pretend to see no man who chokes on crystal ****
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who cram these city streets;
A glance is but acknowledgment,
As all shuffle in quick feet.
To say the least, we will pay none,
To those who are not us;
To say the least, we think we've won,
Ignore the drunk mans fuss.
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who view in black-and-white;
No middle-ground perceives a frown,
As they sleep amid streetlights.
The morning rush and nightly blitz,
As people scurry too,
Destinations, dealing smiles;
Self-help books to start anew.
As talk through text, online, or phone,
Dominates the daze,
Indifferently, ignore eachother,
"Nothing need be said inside this maze."
The CEO, he acts as King,
With peasants treated well;
Their brains blunted to buried states,
"He's bad; but he'll get his due in hell."
Everyday they rise early,
To catch the mornings speed;
"I do this by the clock because,
A life, so rich, I'll lead."
"Conforming kills the mindless soul,
To fight off human urge;"
You're free, yet unaware of this,
So conforming, you won't purge.
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who, like zombies, follow sway,
A human hand on island sand,
'I saw him not,' or so I say.
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 9:17 PM UTC
I hear a motor
In my head,
Cranking, moaning,
Turning, turning...
Nearly dead.
I have an onion
In my head;
Has it a seed
I can embed.
So I keep
Peeling, peeling...
I have a pencil
In my head,
An HB2
With blunted lead,
Scratching on
A blank cortex,
Itching to put
Thought to text.
Scratching, scratching...
I have dough
Inside my head,
Needing kneading
Just like bread.
When it's baked
Sliced and spread,
I'll serve it up
Outside my head.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
You're a wolf in sheep's clothing
That I saw break itself apart just so it could join the flock.
You lived with the sheep long enough that your stench faded,
Inhaled their lifestyle until it became yours.
Then the real wolves came, wearing their own skin,
Entered the flock and began to feast upon the sheep.
You sat, injured and deformed, wearing fluffy, white wool
Over your grey fur.
They came for you, and you pounced.
Your self-blunted teeth split their skulls open,
And your claws tore flesh like the sheep tore blades of grass.
They came for you, but now they are yours.
You ate the wolves' flesh and licked clean their blood;
Your sheep's clothing stained red with wolf.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
Such a classic mortal blunder to lay
my spine as it erodes, graceless, inelegant
on Galatea’s cold, ivory arms;
such delicate carvings can never be human, look human,
feel human under my lonesome bones.
I long to see you flinch and break
into fine, liquid, rain of dust blinding me,
covering the walls of this room
in a blameless shade of white: a new asylum ward
for my kind of insanity,
you say.
It envelopes like light around my awe
and my forlorn limbs,
tangled with Galatea’s unmoving ones.
I look for comfort within brittle carcasses
scraped of everything they could ever give.
The quiet persists eerily.
But here, Pygmalion’s gifts remain untainted:
the apex of auger shells, the beak of a songbird
the blunted ceriths, the rusty chisels
all impaling my spinal bones.
Yet the sculptor’s kisses, long erased,
the careful carvings, long defaced,
long reduced into a Grecian ruin.
I bury my body on your arms yet they find no rest
against the ghostly pleas of mammalian tusks.
How many for your fingers?
How many for your hair?
Tell me, Galatea, were you carved to bear the weight of
all the sea salt I swallowed as I drowned?
Soften under my meandering thoughts; I long
to see you flinch and break — like all the dead elephants —
any reminder that you yield pliantly to the voice
of the love goddess, that you were once turned human.
Break now, your solid arms, under my own collapse
over the sea foam caught on fire.
I am no longer bending and weeping to pick myself up.
Here it all goes down and ends:
my bones,
and yours,
burning,
snapping.
Nothing —
nothing less glorious will last after us.
— Fray Narte
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 10:05 PM UTC
i cannot tell you
how many well meaning
eyes have looked deeply into mine
as lips questioned,
"now what are you doing for you?"
i find that such a bizarre question.
i don't know
staying alive?
avoiding death by
getting maimed
malnutrition
the elements...
isn't that what everyone is doing?
what people are looking for
is something more like...
girl, let me tell you
pull your chair closer
(said in a conspiratorial way)
these disasters couldn't have
happened at a better time!
i've been taking my
government cheese
paying all my bills,
going out to dinner every night
you know i got a life coach
a yoga instructor
and a therapist?
yeah
i have a lover for
every day of the week
i get a massage every wednesday
and a pedicure every monday
because i deserve this me time
what the ****
what am i doing for me?
what are you doing for you?
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC